Ygdrasil

ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ January 1994 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Volume II No. 1 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ»

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º Guest Editor: Pedro Sena º

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º Editor: Klaus J. Gerken º

º Associate Editors: Paul Lauda º

º : Igal Koshevoy º

º European Editor: Miodrag Djordjevic º

º Border Artist: Alicia-michelle Norgaar º

º ( Published Issue Only ) º

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ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ¼

METAMORPHOSIS

...

changes in time, seen through

poetry, as only a true heart

can appreciate

and live with it.

This issue is dedicated to Jorge and Luciana

.... thank you so much!!!

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

NOTIONS ABOUT LINGUISTICS

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( No‡oes de Lingu¡stica - October 1970 - Jorge de Sena )

( Translated by George Monteiro )

I listen to my children talk English

Not the smallest alone but the older

Ones, too, and they the young ones.

Born elsewhere, they grew up

with Portuguese in their ears.

But it's english they speak

they who will not be merely americans;

melted, they continue to melt in

seas not their own. Tell me about

poetry's mystery, a tongue's traditions,

A race of people, all that is inexpressible

save in the untranslatable essence

of a people. Bastards. Languages

last centuries and will survive even when

hidden within other tongues, but they

die every day in the stammer of those who

inherit them. So immortal are they that

a half dozen years suffice to suppress them

in mouths dissolving into new shapes,

impressed by another people, a

different culture. so metaphysical

all languages, so untranslatable, that they

melt thus, not unto the highest heaven, but

into the quotidian crap of another tongue.

ßÛß ÛßÛ Û ßßÛßß ÛßßÛ ÛßßÛ ßÛßßÛ Û Û Ûßßß ßßÛßß ßÛß ÛßßÛ ÛßÛ Û

Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û

Û Û Û Û Û ÛßÛß Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û

Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û

ßßß ß ßßß ß ß ßß ßßßß ßßßßß ßßßß ßßßß ß ßßß ßßßß ß ßßß

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PREAMBLE OF A MAN WITH A FEW WORDS

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And so it has been.

Amidst a few difficult cultural changes, I have finally

figured out how to say a few things in words, where before I felt

intimidated. Little did I know that it would be through a few

poems that help my own spirit dream, that I would eventually find

a thread of communication through which I could learn the english

language and make some friends.

I have always written. I have numerous diaries, and a myriad

of film reviews ( I moderate, and participate in a conference

called THE MOVIES for this reason ), and many stories in the form

of diaries, short ones, a novel in the works, and many theater

plays. Looking back at those writings, I find a young man that was

not struggling with what he wants to say, but how he wants to say

it, trying ever so hard to find an avenue of communication which

might help him find a way to talk to others.

Even with all the writing, the chance to put all the learning

to work with real people, has never really developed. The

atmosphere I grew up in, being the son of a well known gentle

giant, was not conducive to a child learning to grow in a different

society. Mom couldn't help with the homework. Pop was too busy

writing yet another page on his trusty Olivetti. And I was quite

lost, watching foreign films by the best directors, hoping the

french, italian, and spanish would help me define the english

language through the badly translated sub-titles.

Indeed, much of my life has been a sub-title to the real

thing. I had a rude awakening along the way. I couldn't enter

college, right behind the high school due to my poor scores in the

entrance exams, on the english side of things. Eventually I got

there, but it wasn't easy.

At the University of California in Santa Barbara, I took a few

film courses, most of them centered on DIRECTING which was my

major in the THEATER ARTS. The successes were good.

In my final year I had a chance to fight for one "Evening of

International Theater" and amidst a Marguerite Duras and Peter

Handke short plays, I produced my father's "A MORTE DO PAPA"

( The Death of the Pope ). The animosity, and lack of concern by

the ( then ) superiors of the Portuguese and Spanish Department,

left a bitter taste in my mouth. I came away feeling that these

people had no interest in the literature ( which they taught ) and

instead, had much more care for how they wasted the money donated

in my father's name. I felt that developing the "arts" was

important. Teaching the language to those who didn't have an

attraction for the culture ( most were taking it as a requirement

for a second language -- and the rest were foreign exchange

students ) was their main interest. Did they know the

difference.? I don't think so. They had not been the recipients

of the cultural upheavals I had already lived through. I

graduated and quit again. Continuing the film studies was a

difficult undertaking, with no financial resources even though one

professor thought I was excellent. I was working nearly forty

hours weekly to pay for my tuition and books, directed scenes at

night, and studied in the class breaks. It seems no one cared.

I moved to the Pacific Northwest, leaving behind a cultural

hot bed, where I was also involved in some radio work by providing

music from my collection of imports and foreign music. I left all

the cultural diversity, away from all the antagonism and shadows of

a father figure. Being the son of a god, meant that to all the

professorios ( and scholars -- there are good people there ) I was

a pain. And to whomever I showed any writing ( already three plays,

one screenplay, and several poems ) no one was to even look at it,

or acknowledge it, except to this day, Luciana. In one swell foop

with a nice one page letter, the dream, the inspiration, the heart

was born. She is, to this day, my greatest highlight in a world of

competitive and glorified egos which are embraced by the many.

Rather than fight an institution, whose stench I didn't like,

I left. And in exile, I set about writing with a vengeance, since

it was the only way I could satisfy my inner desire and objectives

to make my own vision come alive. I learned that a poem read out

loud, created so many feelings that it was hard to let go. And no

sooner would I get done, another line would appear, and another

poem would develop.

It wasn't until this past year of 1993, that I finally came to

participate in a group of writers, people whose imagery and knack

for expression I have come to LOVE so much. I wanted to be a part

of it, knowing that the only way new writers could 'make it' was if

they stuck together and brought attention to their work. I had

always wanted to be a part of such a group, and to celebrate it I

created another series of poems which are called THE AETHERIC CAFE,

which have not been introduced as yet. We shared our input, and

turned the output ( we never really criticized ourselves very much,

though I regret playing father to a good friend and writer... )

into scores of words, which made so much music to my ears. This

was it.

After a few starts, in different places, we had become a set

of renegade poets. And this, under the supervision ( are you

kidding me..?? ) of KLAUS GERKEN, became the CENTIPEDE. And within

those confines I have posted electronically nearly 100 poems, which

have been written in the past 6 years. I now average, with this

kind of sharing, about one or two poems per week, depending on my

moods.

The honorable Klaus, had always published his writings.

Some of them were in this format here, of an electronic magazine.

This is a new form of doing things, and most likely the form of the

future. I had enjoyed immensely the words of IGAL KOSHEVOY, and

those of Klaus' very own prolific output, and I had enjoyed PAUL

LAUDA's words, and several other writers, some of which I had

seen in various issues. Klaus decided that I should guest edit one

issue. I settled for this one in January, so I would have plenty

of time to decide what I wanted to do with it, and perhaps create

a new concept in design for the magazine. I did have one idea that

I wanted to work with. I wanted to use THE JORGIAN POEMS, which

are conversations and dreams I have had with my father I had

written several years ago in resolving his effect on me. Most of

this material is alocated in dream diaries of mine which are

several volumes in length and span nearly ten years. Essentially

I kept this issue to unpublished material by a few very special

friends and talents.

I want to call this issue METAMORPHOSIS, since it was that set

of poems which created the turning point for my own father.

And it isn't my hope, here, to profess that the Gods shouldn't

be mentioned, respected, or forever studied. I revere my father,

but quite differently than would be expected, and have dedicated

this issue to him. I accept the father as a man with failings who

had a talent for writing, but teaching and sharing knowledge and

abilities with his children, was not one of them. There are two

artists in the family of nine offsprings, and we are both self

made, at a terrible cost and price in our private, and physical,

lives.

A very large thanks of appreciation, goes to Klaus, Igal and

Paul and my surrogate family, the Hickersons. The Centipede, is the

first ( second actually, Helen comes first ) family that has

accepted me for who I am, and I have learned through them to share

properly my true feelings, about life, love, poetry and music.

Found in this issue are Jan Kingsford and Ruby I. Bender, both

not new to the poetic arts. But they have not been, as one would

say, properly introduced. Their abilities are there on the tip of

the tongue -- Ruby reads it with great aplomb off her memory --

ready to anoint those willing to listen for a few seconds. Jan's

ability is much more personal, but nevertheless, just as clear and

good. While she feels that her writings are not good enough to

match her feelings, we all here seem to agree that there is more to

it than she might notice or accept. Michael Stroup, is a song

writer and musician of talent and a very special friend, who had to

quit the music business in order to raise two very fine young sons.

But his ability to get rid of the writing bug failed, and I wanted

him to see, personaly, that his work is good, and worthy of being

printed and shown. I know he will admire this and it will add to

his writing, and to our Centipede a few more songs.

If this road is not a chance to publish a little more, at

least it will be a strong impetus that will make all of us proud to

have written our ( EVER SO ) personal feelings for others to see.

It is their very own chance, and mine, to explore the further

depths of their souls through the eyes and enjoyment of others....

it's the least they deserve, as lovely weavers of a magickal

science, where the placement of one single word, is all consuming,

and important, which we call, in English, simply, POETRY...

Pedro Sena

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ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄ· ÒÄ· Ò ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄ· ÖÄ· ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄ·

º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Publication Page

Issue Title ...................................Pedro Sena

Notions About Linguistics .................Jorge de Sena

Introduction

Preamble of a Man with a Few Words.............Pedro Sena

Table of Contents

When I say...................Jorge de Sena and Pedro Sena

Whoever has.................................Jorge de Sena

The Minotaur...................................Pedro Sena

Whispering Breeze..............................Pedro Sena

Ayers Rock Meditation..........................Pedro Sena

You Are No Longer A Vision.....................Pedro Sena

Together.......................................Pedro Sena

The Art of Music, ( Pt 2 Of Course )...........Pedro Sena

Special Sound..................................Pedro Sena

Sweet Scented Heart Of The Night.( Pt 1 )......Pedro Sena

Erin, Erin.......................( Pt 2 )......Pedro Sena

Gentle, Radiant and Smiling......( Pt 3 )......Pedro Sena

Angels Have A Heart............................Pedro Sena

Shauna.........................................Pedro Sena

Blindsided.................................Michael Stroup

I Feel The Same............................Michael Stroup

Miles To Go.................................Jan Kingsford

Edgar Allan................................Ruby I. Bender

Drying Drops................................Jan Kingsford

Manic's Refrain............................Ruby I. Bender

Honesty.....................................Jan Kingsford

Post Scriptum...............................Klaus J. Gerken

Centipede Information ( Published Issue )

Ygdrasil Publications Information

WHEN I SAY

~~~~~~~~~~

( Quanto eu disser - April 1953 - Jorge de Sena )

( Translated by Pedro Sena - October 1993 )

Quanto eu disser n„o ou‡as

quanto eu fizer n„o vejas

e, se eu estendo as m„os

nao me estendas as tuas.

Aceita que eu exista como os sonhos

que ningu‚m sonha

as imagens malditas que no espelho

sao noite irreflectiva.

Talvez que ent„o

da pura solid„o

eu des‡a a vida.

However much I say, don't listen

however much I do, don't watch

and, if I extend my hands

do not extend me yours.

Accept that I live like the dreams

that no one dreams

the cursed images that on a mirror

are a night without a reflection.

Maybe, then

out of pure solitude,

I'll come to life.

...

( add on Sept 1993 Pedro Sena )

...

and write a few lines

that might lessen a difference

between you and I

brought on by a language

different culture

and separate realities

where what I say

means not much to you,

anymore,

( it might have, then,

had you read it,

who knows ),

...

to anyone even,

to the many who might, yet,

read a few letters

perhaps

and ignore them

as another folly

another selfish act of my own,

some mere masturbation

in the heart of a hand

whose desire to be

has been still-born

...

until recently.

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

WHOEVER HAS....

~~~~~~~~~~~

( Quem a tem... -- December 1956 -- Jorge de Sena )

( Translation by Pedro Sena )

Nao hei de morrer sem saber

qual a cor da liberdade.

Eu n„o posso sen„o ser

desta terra em que nasci.

Embora ao mundo perten‡a

e sempre a verdade ven‡a

qual ser ser livre aqui

nao hei-de morrer sem saber.

Trocaram tudo em maldade

‚ quase um crime viver.

Mas, embora escondam tudo

e me queiram cego e mudo

nao hei-de morrer sem saber

qual a cor da liberdade.

I shall not die without knowing

the color of liberty.

I can't but be anything from

this earth, where I was born.

Though to this world I belong

and always the truth wins

how will it be, to be free here,

I shall not die without knowing.

Exchanging every thing maliciously,

it is almost a crime to live.

But while they hide everything

and want me blind and dumb,

I shall not die without knowing

the true color of liberty.

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THE MINOTAUR

~~~~~~~~~~~~

( Written in 1988. This poem is a 'reply' to one of my father's

best known poems IN CRETE, WITH THE MINOTAUR. )

In Crete, like the minotaur

without verses or much life

without country, or any spirit

with nothing... no one...

except my dirty paw,

I'll drink my coffee peacefully.

I have sat here many days and nights

I am told there is such a difference

how would I know, I haven't seen much

since the day I was born.

I've lived here, in total solitude

at times peaceful

other times frightening,

a few horrors enter my mind

and some occasionally feed me

something, anything,

ugly maidens and children

sacrifice to the gods,

yeah,

as if I were an animal

which to many, I am,

but to me,

I can think, feel, cry,

and what would you care

you are not here with me

and haven't seen this

this,

endless cave, my very home

some home.

the only one I have ever known.

I am a beast of prey

a minotaur, the poet

tells me, my only visitor,

and I need to have some

benefits for life

except the decisions were

made a long time ago

that I should stay here

incarcerated by the ideals

which befall your ways.

I was born,

half a man, half an animal

and to this day do not know

why I am treated so harshly.

Don't men and animals

all live together?

Aren't they a part

of a large world? Somewhere?

But I am an aberration

of the union of the right

and wrong feelings.

My ancestors talk of such

there were bulls and erections,

there were swans and soft beds,

there were horses and great lovers,

there were birds great flyers,

and how could anyone

not expect some odd results

here and there?

Were I maimed,

deaf, dumb and blind,

what's the difference,

a minotaur, but no,

after all is said and done

your lust is satisfied

you forget the result

forget yourself

and all that mattered

was your pleasure

that became my pain.

These days there are humans

many more of them

children of unsatiated lust,

who think they aren't animals,

all of them, anymore,

but man and women

a part of the kingdom,

some lands that I never have seen.

Many times I sit here

and talk with my only visitor

... and tutor,

about justice, and philosophy.

And he brings me coffee

that's what he calls it,

it tastes great

and better than the piss streams

I find here, and there

in the depths of these caves.

He's asked me not to fear, or judge,

to forget all the ugly past,

and grudge

the mistakes that time made me a beast

and has to answer for, soon, in the least

in full, for its error and sad neglect

and allow me some love, a bit of respect.

He's a good man of lines and letters

I can't write like, yet, like he tatters

you see, I have no fingers in my paw

with which to recommend a very new law

which may find room for man and a bull

and close the book of errors in full.

And I tell him the stories of the feasts

and how all the women ran naked and wild

attacking men and anything like beasts

in ways that are now unusual, and not mild

showing everybody how they all were so virile

and capable of making this earth so fertile

in its proper season

...

as a bull, I have a long prick

and few people desire less of it

and us...

the stupid beasts of talented arousal

know nothing of refusal and arousal

and to our share, must live like a beast

and have our members hardened, for

some men ... old men ...

who hope for yet another lift

to support their old body

before they die

...

but I haven't asked the poet

why me... and the dirty paw

...

scent of a whore, maybe

...

stains from the poet's ink and pen

...

maybe he feels as alone as I do

and as he writes, he can't help notice

all the weakness, and faults

and hopes of correcting it all

being that I have no chance

to fix any law, anything

and will eventually die

for the errors of it all.

He says that it will be remembered

through all the thick and thin minds

until it be known we all murdered

the hopes, the dreams, the love,

from our very own lives...

I know not what I would do

without the poet's heart

to soothe my weary mind.

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Whispering Wind

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Writted Dec 11,1988)

A whispery breeze of wind,

slipped by me,

...

I barely noticed,

...

but I stood there,

on this desert island,

amidst

land,

dried land,

waiting for another...

whisper...

from that scintillating mother,

...

of pearl,...

of life,...

whose sweet and moist kiss,

brings life to the inert body,

that is dry,...

...

and thirsting,...

for nourishment,...

yeah, life,...

amidst this desert,

arid,...

and desert land.

And another whispery breeze,

shook me,

...

out of my slumber,

out of my long dream,

of waiting,

...

and nourished me,

like,...

another sweet kiss of life,

yes,...

it did feel like,

life,..real life.

Out here,...

in the desert,...

we live,...

we,

manage to live,

in spite of all odds,

and manipulations of our nature,...

or heart,...

or heat,...

yes, we live, and dream,

to see another sunset,

as the dawn slips by,

on my side and I draw,

my slight petals in,

for warmth,...

perhaps to sleep,...

to be awakened later,...

by,...

another whispery breeze of wind,

that will slip by me,

and take me away,

...

and I guess,

out here,

in the desert lands,

there is nothing else to say,

...

except,...

it was such a long time away,...

and,

oh yes, and then,

another whispery breeze

of that wind just kissed me aw......

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Ayers Rock

~~~~~~~~~~

January 12, 1993

That we shall all connect

despite creed, love or sect

and join together in this flight

to meet true love in its height.

Near a rock are we today

as we sit, and lovingly pray

the words, the feelings of a care

which teaches, praises, we bear.

...

the life of true spirit being

like god, and capable of seeing

wishing its care to be taught

lest it be wasted in thought.

As we gather here in real life

let us set apart always the strife

and help end any, and all distrust

into the night of ugly disgust,

let us this day accomplish

all deeds of healing and bliss

and take it back to all our friends

to help a world, in its many amends.

Amen

( and enjoy the rock by all means! )

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

You... Are No Longer

A Vision,

or a Poem.

~~~~~~~~~

August 4, 1989

( Written after a series of visions and meditations )

You,

...

are no longer a vision.

...

Or a poem.

There was a day,

and many a night,

of wonder,

of hope,

of waiting,

and perhaps

of expecting,...

and, I have often felt,

..'what daring'..

have I,

to stand and think,

much less,... even more,

write a poem,

of hope,

prayer like,

that one day this will

all come to happen,

somehow,

amid all the daily

...

events

...

and rotten repercussions

of doubt and belief,

some mine,

most by others,

that,

...

somehow, in some way,

I would one day

stand up

across your path,

and blatantly

tell you, that,

...

I loved you.

And you might say,

...

do you know me?

...

And I'll say,

...

what is there to know,

that can't be proved

by your being,

and,

standing here,

...

I had to grow,

you had to see,

I had to learn,

you had to be,

and now,

as the end of the past

nears,

ever so softly,

I can finally

see your eyes,

truly,

...

fully,

...

and feel

what can't possibly

ever,

be felt by many,

but the lucky few,

...

chosen ones,

...

yes,...You,

...

are no longer a vision.

Or even a poem.

And from my dream

of our climb

along the many splendour'd

shaft of light

shall the truth of truths

forever be born,

that no one can ever

cast a side glance of doubt

over the power of hope,

or of love,

and of care,

...

(yes, I have cared,.)

...

and of trust,

Oh yes, trust,

that indomitable faith,

which can make

or break all of us

into worthless,unhappy beings

whose desires are

masters of oblivion,

and reality is but

a shadow of what

it all could

and should,

...

forever be.

Sure it was hard.

And, it was painful.

But worth it.

For in one second,

all that ever was,

only but a vision,

perhaps a hope or two,

and a wondrous sight,

is now,

so true,

so clear,

so perfect,

and so inspiring,

that I'm not sure

that there even exist

in this unfathomable idea

of eternal time and space,

enough ink and lead

to describe you,

...

enough notes, scales and instruments

to,..

to surround you,

...

enough paints and canvases

to delineate you,

...

which will truly describe

the feelings

not even a second long

of a vision within a vision

which is,

an incarnate truth,

...

a specialized moment,

...

of unbearable joys,

...

when all time stands still,

...

and shines,...

like only the sun

ever can and will,

oh yes, it shines,...

ever so brightly,...

hot, desireable,

when it finally can be said,

once and for all,

...

You

( my dear)

...

Are no longer a vision.

...

Or,

even,

just

another

poem.

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Together

~~~~~~~~

October 1993

Together

we embraced

each other.

Didn't seem enough

even when naked,

with your warm,

gentle body

your smooth skin

the velvet touch

the slim arms

the many times when

we came together

to celebrate

our meeting

of mind,

of bodies,

of soul,

and further yet,

of spirit,

when the two energies

meet,

and no longer

side by side

but together

as one, one source

one energy

one new form

of life,

of love,

of a special care

which I have hoped for

and dared think

that you would,

as well,

and accept this man

with his heart in his palms

and his poems in his hands

as a part of your being

one he could have

one he could enjoy

a feeling he wanted to share

with you,

...

maybe a need,

on occasion a desire,

maybe even a demand,

...

but not without full heart

to share the warmth

and our little desire

some small lust

for life and living

the kind only spoken of

dreamed about

more often than not

totally forgotten

amidst our daily lives

where love is just

another word or argument.

No, none of that stuff.

Together

we embraced

each other

in an unspoken desire

to be together further still

within and without the body.

And together we came

both our bodies

bathed in sacred sweat

a sign of the intense

love of god, not lust

until we knew we were

experiencing something

so exciting so beautiful

we couldn't talk about it

the energy flew

it danced

it jumped

it flew

it ran

it went

it came

it swirled

stirring a slight breeze

that only a true spirit

can ever feel

the kind that we want

rarely find

...

I never wanted it to end,

what was a holy union

so meaningful to the few

who have met

the spirits of the heart

...

and dared share

their total soul

with nothing else

absolutely nothing else

between them.

Together

we embraced each other

yet again

...

because it was right

yes, it was alright,

and we had

finally

found each other

and were then

able to feel each other

alive

truly alive.

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

The Art of Music

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 2, Of course.

Music is the guiltiest rhythm in my life. It has made me what

I have wanted to become, although my immediate family would rather

I let go of the inane wonderings and transmutations I live to enjoy

it. With it, I have become an artist of the heart, and learned to

feel what has created most of my visual imagery.

Many times, during upheavals, or moments of depression and

inner disarray, my only drug that works, is music. It has never

failed to lift me unto another world, and many nether spheres

somewhere in this universe, of the mind. It is the endless realm,

the only one of the kind I have ever met. And the realm I cherish

and love like no one I have ever met, or wished for. And this

special love has taught me not to differentiate between the

bourgeois styles of music and the proletarian snobbish ways of

listening to it. Regardless, both musics accomplish the same

thing, though they may use a different road.

There was a time when I was going to learn the piano, but the

teacher had as much talent for teaching as the worst teacher we

have ever met. Or at least, she never tried to tell the child that

one had to learn a few things first, so he could eventually learn

how to emulate what he was hearing, and figure it all out. All in

all, I think all of the children were 'encouraged' ( fun thing to

know -- so nice -- you play so well, but don't make it a career --

we already have one bum here ) to learn something about music, but

none of us had the gall to stick to it and one day stand in the

limelight to either sink or swim.

In that time, music was something which was seen, and

occasionaly heard on the radio. When we went to Brazil, my father

was finaly able to buy a record player, and his collection started,

and increased to almost 3,000 albums. I started my own collection

of unusual things, ecletic tastes, which my father also had in his

collection. At one point I had over 3,000 albums as well as the

knowledge of classical music. Together we had over 6,000 different

albums of music. I ventured to give my father a TOMITA album, to

which he graciously replied "..very nice..", though I think his

idea of electronic music by that time was more along the cold lines

of Stockhausen and Heinemman, than they should be of a japanese

artist trying to do one of his favorites, Debussy.

My musical tastes had expanded. I still tend to like the

sound that is more symphonic, and almost always aim for mood and

any creation of imagery, which I long for for every minute of my

life. It doesn't matter to me if it is created by an orchestra, or

a synthesizer, or if it is created by a single voice, or a

teaspoon. All of my tastes lean towards what is known as 'avant

garde', 'experimental', or even ( heaven forbid ) 'electronic'.

These are labels which I do not accept, but people are generaly

afraid to like something which is not the norm, or the pattern in

the radio speakers, or in the ears of their friends. Regardless,

all of it is an inspiration to what I tend to consider a rather

empty and lonely life, where I have found that love is another

lyric in a song, or just another word in a plastic sign with a few

colors around it, and a good relationship on all levels is

impossible, and another dream to be found.

I find it difficult to build a consensus on music. To me, the

feeling closest to mine WHILE creating a poem, or a new story, or

another screenplay, all for the sake of using excess wasted paper

and electricity, is that of listening to a piece of music that just

dares you to close your eyes and go along with it. This is what I

live for. And there are times when I wish to write a few lines

about those visuals which a specific piece of music has given me,

but rarely have I succeeded at it, and I think I figured out why.

One is that the original composer of the piece has an idea, or

theme, sub-conscious or otherwise, and is trying to get it across.

The other is that I am also a living entity, who is experiencing

the music, but also has his own wavelength to follow up on. The

difference between these two is massive, and prevents me from

concentrating long enough to write about it. But there are

benefits. I have learned to let these moments live for the

duration of the piece, and enjoy a heck of a movie, be it mine, or

the composer's. And there are certain pieces of music, TANGERINE

DREAM's Mysterious Semblance At The Strand Of Nightmares that

always manage to command direct attention, and they defy me to

listen and fly away with it, rather than bother writing... I have

never been able to describe that non-euclidean space, and its

colors and vibrations in any form which was satisfying enough for

me.

I've been told that all this means that I am a natural

musician, with untold capabilities. To that end, I occasionaly

strut my trusty Fender Bass, and have in my agenda a plan to get a

very good synthesizer and midi system ( my weakness is keyboards )

with the hopes of developing some more music. While I can't

exactly play Chuck Berry very well ( it is simple enough ), I can

compose pieces of music that allow me some inner space, to which I

can easily write lyrics or a poem, depending on my mood. I have

been assuming that this is another implementation in my tapestry of

creativity. The instrument allows me to enter, easily, into a

specific inner space where taking notes and writing is effortless.

I have also been told that my poetry is very musical. I

attribute it to two things. One, quite often, not as much as I

used to, I am listening to some music. This also helps in other

ways. For example, the poems dedicated to Erin, were a perfect

example of a similar inspiration. We were in conversation and

ANTHONY PHILLIPS' Slow Dance was playing behind us. During a

special moment she noticed the music and it brought tears to her

eyes ( hopefully not sad .. ) and the lucidity of that moment went

on to create several poems. The memory of that one moment in time

of that lovely lady has become such a steady force of inspiration

for me, than I could imagine. And I hope to have the chance, one

day, to find out why the music was so sad for Erin, or was it just

a memory of something so good, that didn't work. The other thing

happens to be that the only feeling which I can relate to in any

art is a fluidity which I can only explain with the sensuality of

music, which one could say is something which I long for. And when

I describe it, it seems to come off fluid and musical.

More often than not, these days, I write in silence, since

almost all of my work is dependent on listening to myself, and

paying special attention to my inner visuals that develop so fast

and frequently. And the less I am distracted, the better my

ability to stay with it and transcribe the inevitable

hieroglyphics. The clearer the visualization, the more detailed,

the more fluid, all these images appear in the paper. Not a bit of

this process has anything to do with THINKING. It is merely a

'frozen moment in time' which I have learned to gather long enough

in my field/vision screen, until I have had a chance to write it,

or tape into a small recorder. In many ways, this is a process

derived from my experiences in transcendental meditation. I have

even been told that much of my poetry is PSYCHOTROPIC in nature,

which I consider a compliment, and attribute it to my living of

each special moment, through a few lines and words. I never

thought that Aldous Huxley, Carlos Castaneda, Luis Bunuel and

Salvador Dali would ever meet, but if there is a moment, here they

are sharing a cup of tea, or their favorite wine.

There is a special flow, if there is such a thing, which keeps

me busiest. It is music to my heart, and it generates a feeling

which very few things in my life have ever done, from any

inspiration to any one single person. There isn't a single piece

of music or a woman, that has ever been so exciting as the special

moment when a line like,

You,

are no longer

a vision...

or,

a poem.

and the ensuing sequence of images which follows, that I have ever

seen... or,

sweet

scented heart of the night

...

when an eternal flame and desire for a perfect muse, a real love,

is always lit into a stupor of romantic notions and visions. Yes,

I do write for a dream I have not dreamt yet. Yes, I do write for

a love that has not met a vision, or vice versa. Yes, I do write

for a peace that is not here which feels incomplete, or cut in

half. A moment of sharing, soothing, several tears in an oasis of

dry, deserted sandy dunes, tears no one will ever seem to hear or

have the ability to feel. In many ways, I live for these moments

for they are all I have found, and at this point will gladly die

for them.

In this, I do differ from my father. He had no chance to be

a romantic, as his life pegged him to a pair of shoes he didn't

like ( I don't wear shoes by the way ) and a life of servitude to

a thankless system of education which killed him, though I admit

that I am very proud of the level to which his ability has been

admired. I look at it all, as UNFINISHED. I may yet die the

eternal young man in love, hoping his Juliet will still appear and

dance, or paint, or love, one more time, in her own special way,

just so I can create yet another refrain to keep her remenbered

forever. Maybe I'll write for her to paint.

Music led me to all my visions, dreams, which I had to harness

in one way or another. It was trancendental meditation which

taught me to appreciate much of these moods, and at the same time

enjoy something which is inexplicable. I can't even write about

all the FIBERS, COLORS, and STRANDS OF ENERGY I meet in those

travels, or have ever found a language good enough to translate

them with. There just aren't enough words available for such an

undertaking. I try to place these images in a poetic format,

because there are no other viable forms which I have found that

helps describe a feeling with one word. POETRY, then, is the best

language, with which I can express so many images, and keep them

moving since they are always moving, in such an easy fashion. I

take it that if I were a musician, I would do the same thing with

a string, or wind instrument, or a few keys. If I were a painter,

there would be so many layers that one would never know where to

start looking at the piece. Through meditation, and writing is

really a form of it, I have learned to increase the level of

awareness, both inner and outer, in order to be able to see it all

a bit longer, which I have been able to store in a buffer, long

enough until I have worked with it. In many cases it is ready, and

I barely make any changes, with the exception of a few words here

and there. The spacing of the words is a factor of the feeling

depths and their ministrations of my visual imagery.

All in all, I find there is no difference between music and

me. Together we resonate as one, and express ourselves likewise

with our specific tools. The music comes through the instruments

while my images born out of the etheral space play via my hand,

through a pen, or computer keyboard, into the eyes of those who

will enjoy it, regardless of rhyme or reason. I can't think of a

better way to live, or even conceive of living without any music,

the spacious heart of the soul, expressed in such a meticulous

way... as to the personal hopes, that remains to be seen.

October 1993

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Special Sound

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 17, 1993

Special sound

Methodical Vibration

weaving a color thread

thru a space

an eternity

...

to reach

somewhere

...

in time

...

a feeling

...

perhaps an illusion

of love, hate,

even a thought

...

that wants to tell you

something

anything

maybe nothing

but, that you

should experience

in its fullness

al of its secrets

languages

notes

fingers

deciphered as a form

of energy

that we call

sound

made a hand

who felt it all

deeply

the vestiges

of its truth,

the dharma

of its heart,

the rings

of its energy,

the pain

of its body,

the life

in its death,

the living

of its day

...

for a mere second

that reaches you

and touches you

somehow

don't even know how,

in yet another

minute feeling

making you shiver

inspiring you

one more time

before it moves on

to another oracle

another time

endlessly,

but forever,

...

and it will never die

it is a special sound

such a special feel

glowing in your space

it is a life

of its own

on its own

way.....

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Erin

~~~~

August 7, 1993 AM

Scented heart in the night

lives, loves, learns, cries

seemingly alone, staring away

looking for a sky of thought

...

breathe, breathe in that air

take, absorb, nature's care,

and tell me o'your loud dream

so I can write more, scream

occasionally

...

when virtue fails my sight

scented heart o' the night

live, talk to me, and cry

all the beauty you see, try

'til I can no longer take it,

hide, write, or even fake it,

that,

...

there's feeling in my heart

that I see, tears me apart

( not your fault )

and it can always be shared

if we could, and only dared

...

to forget a past, forever

till a new dawn comes e'er

to show

the scented heart o' the night

lives here, shines so bright

and

will light such sweet face

w'lines of love, and grace.

...

( thanks for the inspiration )

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Erin, Pt 2

~~~~~~~~~~

August 21, 1993

( The music playing is Anthony Phillips' SLOW DANCE Pt 1.)

Erin, erin, erin

sweet

and scented heart

that has been living

in much

darkness,

awake,

( I whisper one more time )

awake,

for there is

yet another song

which can be shared

and could be danced to

before it is

all said and done

forgotten

on the way to be

forgiven.

A long sad, life,

of a shattered dream

that didn't exist

but left you hurt,

and with heavy heart,

please awake,

here's a kiss

just plain warmth

simple care

to you,

a little love,

a lot of feeling,

some desire,

which can be shared

as friends, even,

for much good,

should

( could )

it be possible?

That in your heart,

you could give

your vision

another chance,

before you lose

that sweet

scented heart

into the deep

dark night,

of our memories,

of nothing,

nothing,

the darkest space of all,

no love,

no cares.

Erin, Erin, erin,

Awake.

You,

the inspiring muse,

where

your love lives,

not in fantasy,

but in reality,

in life,

at least where

you can also gain

a seedling of respect

a few measures of love

some pain, yes,

but also some more,

developing your desire

that has been hurt

rarely appreciated,

often dismissed,

but

( for me )

never forgotten

ever felt

many times wanted

I wish it were possible

rather than a horrible

dream, out of frustration

with a few more lines,

of adulation.

Sweet, and e'er so sweet

scented heart of the night

full of stars we see, meet,

make it all, desire, and might

to find it,

to learn it,

to love it,

to share it,

to nurture it,

to care for it,

so it can be told

in a few lines

full of words

with few actions

( except in the mind's )

that there is

out there

in those stars

spread amidst this universe

one person

who cares,

and,

will gladly share it

all

with you.

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Erin, Pt 3

~~~~~~~~~~

October 1993

( The music playing is Anthony Phillips' Slow Dance Pt 2 )

Gentle, radiant, smiling, you take yourself far

And as you sway, the doors open, the windows ajar

The winds behind you, colorfully tender breeze

Caressing you, like a feather with such soft ease.

Life is rough, we can be rougher, and you'll survive

Yet to the end, we all have, and shall to see, arrive

Then, you'll see all you have been through and done

Loved, hated, cared, failed - more and then some,

We'll show you

Your experience has been worthwhile

To you

To us

As you learned

And grew

And became

A vision

no, no, no,

A person

To a poet of few words

Hidden behind the many numbers

A man with some letters

A human with such heart

A spirit of a little care

A soul with desire

...

It isn't always the battle it seems

The efforts we push forth and endure

But with a few smiles, loving whims

You'll yet sway, through the sure

and true clear path you have wove.

Nothing like a little inspiration

for a poem of heart and no soul

But with love and true radiation

I give it to you in a plain round bowl

...

while a fish in a glass still pouts

...

and we watch

...

I did,

and wanted to meet

you

...

a feeling of freedom

you, to share

a scent of air

you, to give

a tender mercy

you, to feel

a gentle breeze

you, to touch

a gentle skin

you, to whisper

...

yet another poem

from this lonely heart

into a life

...

a hope to live

a chance to survive

a need to give

a hope to inspire

...

a few thoughts into a face

that has beauty in it

somewhere hidden behind much

but not enough, such

that one can not see

what is there ready to appear

at anytime and in all truth

really should

BE.

( thanks for the inspiration )

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Angels Have Heart

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April 1987

( For Vina )

All angels have a heart for us all to see

let it show, then, all its glory, shine, be,

....

dive,

splash,

woosh,

and our hearts carry the wings, a blancket

for you and I to sleep in, with some warm air

or a coolish breeze from the earth's thicket

and we live on, with many tasks to bear.

....

dive,

splash,

clean,

turn,

then,

take me away,

the feathers so soft, sound so pretty

appear, disappear, and fly so gently

until the time we have them not

and feel empty

and that loneliness appears

and our heart cries

again

...

the missing beat nears

we look to the sky

away from here

hoping to find

....

dive,

splash,

swish,

run,

fly,

and caress, softly, with me.

The flight is so high

the dive is quite pure

your heart will clean much

pain, fear, hurts, anger

you'll find a cure

and many shall feel free

once again

to dance in that hall

where his legs and feet stand

and await you

to shine,

and never to fall

( or fail ).

dive,...

splash,...

run,...

fly away,...

and here we stand

and watch

such beauty

such care,

such love,

that few know

or will ever understand,

or desire.

We have been together

and have shared

it all

from the loveliest wing

to the greates heart

of them all.

and yes, I do

miss that heart

yes, I do.

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Shauna Shauna

~~~~~~

August 21, 1993

( For Shauna )

Cuddled, we slept,

your back to me,

tucked in next to me,

my arm around you

my right hand,

on your left breast,

and I could feel a heart

palpitate, quietly,

smoothly,

writing a song,

spelling a dream,

perhaps a vision,

the feel of that heart,

so soothed my life

made it easier to live,

simpler to hear,

you...

you moved a little

there was a sound

in the large window

right in front of us,

amidst the spring green

of the early morning,

stood a deer

rubbing its nose

against the glass

you got up, ohh

the emptiness of your departure

hit me like a thunder,

the arms were cooler,

the warmth cooled

and you naked and free

moved your body,

ever so gently,

ever so quietly,

to the window

as the deer watched

carefully

took a few steps

then returned

to the window.

Your presence was stronger,

and it knew you.

You passed the table,

grabbed the cereal

and walked slowly

quietly, breasts swaying

secretly, lightly

towards the window,

you made a few sounds,

the deer's ears perked up,

I had heard these before,

right here,

it understood you,

because it didn't move,

somehow it knew,

somehow it just knew.

You opened the window slowly

I could see a silhouette

perfectly, short

well proportioned

smooth, beautifull

a painting, but alive

and with feeling.

As the window slid upwords,

the deer steped back.

You poured some cereal

on your hand

brought it to your mouth

kissed it

ate a little

then, sloftly,

gently

stretched your arm

holding the food

holy meal

to the curious animal

who immediately moved forward

and began eating

out of your hand,

it's peace was clear,

its ears moved slowly,

but only when needed,

no fear now,

its love alive

its thankfulness near

the amount on your hand was done

the animal licked your palm,

and looked at you

and moved closer,

took a few licks

of your wrist,

arm, neck,

you smiled,

it wanted more food,

it kissed your face,

you laughed a little

and poured some more food

on your hand

and the deer ate it gladly.

Then it suddenly moved away,

it scampered quickly,

as we heard some bustling

in the bushes,

you never moved,

you must have known,

and soon,

some little ones appeared.

You sat down

on the window sill,

garcious movement,

and you fed them all,

until they were full

satiated, thankfull

and rubbed their little heads

on your leg, on your arm

on your smooth body

on your heart

as if suckling for milk

...

I got up,

came to the window

ever so slowly

the animals were no longer

afraid,

they knew you,

trusted me.

I brought them a little more

food,

and patted their soft fur,

their attentive ears

their slight foreheads

the mom kissed my hand for some more

and I gave her some.

Alas, out of food,

we patted them again

wished them well.

Shauna and I kissed,

mouth to mouth,

body to body,

soul to soul,

spirit to spirit,

I then kissed her eyes

I kissed her forehead,

all under the eyes

of our gallery of beasts,

and I kissed

that beautifull body

that ached for peace

in the animal kingdom

for a life in the wild

for a dream

of total freedom,

and we made love,

right there,

by the window,

with the curious eyes

watching, laughing

and occasionaly

nibbling my back.

We went back to bed

satisfied, satiated

free, happy

shauna cuddled me

kissed a thank you

turned

cuddled tighter

grabbed my right arm

and covered her figure with it

and then tucked it

on her left breast

over her heart

and I, once again

listened

to the heart beat

of a life

there was a little rustling

in the wind

and I knew

that our blessed beasts

were gone,

gone for today,

but this moment

never, ever

will.

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

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ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

BLINDSIDED

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone speaks

Across the room

A sobbing voice breaks

Love soaked days and nights

Cancelled by fear

Of repeating mistakes

...

And I was -

Blindsided

I didn't even see it coming

Can't fight it

Before I hit the ground

You were already running away.

( bridge )

It don't get any clearer than this

Believe it like the taste of a goodbye kiss.

I was

blindsided

Nothing I can say or do

Will it right

You won't come around

And I'm already fading away

...

One morning

All alone with someone who cares

Without warning

The fabric of reality tears

...

And I was -

Blindsided

I didn't even see it coming

Can't fight it

Before I hit the ground

You were already running away.

-- Michael Stroup

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

I Feel the Same

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I carved your name

In the desk

The first time I saw you

In gradeschool

And I carved a heart

In a tree -

By the brook

Where I walked with you

For the first time

Read you a poem

That did not rhyme.

And I felt the shame

In my heart

The first time I lied to you

And like a fool

I made you cry

Over me -

In the park

Where I talked to you

For the last time

Spoke of my life

Oh, but I wasn't in time.

( instrumental verse )

In the life

Where we thought we knew

We were in love

I didn't realize

It's never enough.

And I feel the same

On this day

As I did the last time

I kissed you

And I felt your hair

On my face -

On the lake

Where the full moon light

Made your eyes shine

you gave me your love

I gave you mine.

And

I feel the same

Baby, I do

I feel the same

Darlin', don't you?

-- Michael Stroup

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Miles to Go

~~~~~~~~~~~

I drove across the

flat farm land in the

purpling evening,

speeding past memories

of grandparents, kitchen

pumps and cottontails,

to say goodbye.

Silhouettes of cornfields

and grain elevators settled

against the remains

of the parting sun as it

painted the sky in

a childhood vision

of sunsets,

pink rays fanning into

the heavens as

the stench of manure and

feedlots coated the air.

And there you were,

wearing a quiet smile

that spoke of the secret you

finally knew.

I stood and caressed the

red of the flag that

covered you and shared our

communal silence of love

one last time,

staring at your hands

no longer shaking

no smoking cigarette dripping ashes....

but still your hands,

overwhelmed with love for this

prison that was yours,

and wished you farewell.

-- Jan Kingsford

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Edgar Allan

~~~~~~~~~~~

I dig and hoe get seeds and sow

And water them and watch them grow

If I don't do this I know

My gardens will no color show

My soul will surely fill with woe

can't stand and chat I gotta go

And get the shovel and the hoe

And till the earth and start to sow

And plant some flowers tall and low

And water them and watch them grow

And dream about the color show

No I'm running out of time

I'm running out of words that rhyme

Too bad the key word here is "hoe"

Sounds like this verse was penned by Poe!

-- Ruby I. Bender

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

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ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Drying Drops

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dreams run down my windowpane,

drying drops of summer rain.

My heart chatters endlessly, restlessly on,

telling it's stories from dusk till dawn.

It calls to you and sighs your name,

the echoing silence wounds and maims.

Trying too hard to be seen and heard

stumbling, tumbling on just one word.

Trying to free my hearts desire,

caught in a choking muddy mire.

Please be the wings for my dreams to fly,

don't let them flutter, sputter and die.

Your words speak truths my heart can hear

quelling and quenching the nameless fear.

Let the river of your vision overflow my banks,

let me sing you a song of joy and thanks.

-- Jan Kingsford

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

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ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Manic's Refrain

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Have you tried the Lithium

Haldol and Navane too

Tranzenem Thorazine, Triavil

Elavil or Prolixin just to name a few - -

Well if you have, you may join this refrain

By and large all reek havoc

And not only with oyur brain

Though professing to stabilize

In truth they mostly paralyse

Both mind and limb your body through and through.

Though some appear to thrive on these legalized meds

Most patients plead for mercy as they stagger towards their beds

Now it's time for Dekapote; is this another sour note?

I won't know until tomorrow;

Will tomorrow be too late?

Is this just one more failure or - -

Will it rehabilitate?

-- Ruby I. Bender

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

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ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

Honesty

~~~~~~~

A moment of truth

held in a bar of soap,

Synchronicity's song

in a health food store.

Aching heart reaches out and talks

of the warmth of a marmalade sun.

An hour later the owner of

the heart stands in a store,

holding in her hand a bar of soap

whose label wants you to

imagine yourself in a Portugal

orange grove an a bright summer morning.

Marbled orange, color and scent, spicy sweet,

it calls itself "Portuguese Breakfast" and

it whispers truths to the aching heart.

And the aching heart remembers,

listens, understands.

Remembers anger flashing, concealing the pain.

Other voices raised, other battles

joined, the aching heart retreated

licking and picking it's wounds.

A poetic voice, offered as a branch of

understanding was heard through wounded

ears and scarred heart, wounding other

ears, scarring other hearts. Of all the raised

voices, the source of her pain was silent and she

shivered, cold, behind her walls.

Listens to the sound of breaking silence,

breaching walls, a poetic voice handing

her anger back to her calmly and quietly,

wrapped in love, tied up in understanding.

Understands the sad silence that has wrapped

her aching heart, the mist of tears that has

blurred her landscape, muffling her pain,

disguising the truth.

And standing in a store, holding a

bar of soap, the marmalade sun breaks

through the mist, steam rises from the wet ground,

a miasma of love ignored, love denied.

And in the clearing sky, the aching heart

realizes, the aching heart sees, the aching

heart knows. The aching heart is falling in love.

-- Jan Kingsford

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

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THE MINOTAUR

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Minotaur

After a long

Long journey home

Lies asleep

In his lair

With his eyes closed

Afloat on a dream

That his

Exhaustion airs

A dream of a

Girl so young

As he is old

With mushroom eyes

And hair so wild

Lost and alone

The minotaur

Stirrs in his lair

He sighs for her

A dream which forms

Each single tear

That's gathered here

Throughout the years

Throughout all time

Tangled with vines

A dark lament

His heart has wrent

A tear which has

Repeated that

"I loved so much

And how I loved

And who I loved

And why I loved

No one can know"

The minotaur stirrs

In his lair

He sighs for her

The Minotaur

After a long

Long journey home

Lies asleep

In his lair

With his eyes closed

And a thorn that's lodged

Within his side

A tear extracted from

His gentle eye

So with his heart bled dry

Beneith the sword

Of Thesius

He howls and cries

For want of love

For want of life

A life that is

But now a dream

A life that still

Retains the lie

But once this dream

Revealed the truth

How two were one

But now no more

It's just a dream

As any dream

A penalty

Where death becomes

The Labyrinth

Lost love exposed

The Minotaur

After a long

Long journey home

Reclaims his lair

Reclaims his love

Reclaims what's there

The minotaur

After a long

Long journey home

Dies...

Coda

~~~~

The minotaur

Stands by her side

Protects the light

That shines on her...

-- Klaus J. Gerken

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

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º A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers º

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º - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310] º

ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¶

º (C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda º

ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ¼

Come one, come all! Welcome to Centipede. Established just for

writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place

for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn

from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.

Even a chance to be published in a magazine.

Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area,

an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and

speculated history & publishing. In all of the ten conferences,

anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends.

For that is what CentNet is here for: for you. Ever wonder how

to accent a poem at the right meter? Well, come join our

PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out.

Have any problems in deciphering your dreams? Select The Dreams

echo, and you're questions shall be solved.

The Network was created on May 16, 1993. I created this because

there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience.

And with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to

grow, and become active on Bulletin Board Systems.

I consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a

specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.

Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most

nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest

to a writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss.

A writer can now download the whole network, without phasing

out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to

the writer's interests. This means that Centipede has all

the active topics that any creative user seeks. And if we

don't, then one shall be created.

If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call

at +609-896-3256, and join one of our conferences. You'll

not be disappointed! Or, check out the latest info packet

being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE].

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

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CENTIPEDE

ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ A Professional Mailing NetWork ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ

European Edition Notes

- A or -

Welcome to Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network.

Modem or Otherwise

Centipede, was created by the effort of Paul Lauda and a very

special group of friends, with the intent to encourage the

sharing and distribution of poetic material. It was our feeling,

THEN, and it is, NOW, that there are certain things in life which

should be treated with honest feeling, and not be censored,

because it might have one word, or one feeling which someone did

not like.

When we first started, we centered ourselves around POETRY.

But, no sooner were we ready to go on the phone lines, we all

also wanted a few other things to enjoy and share. Immediately

a few other MESSAGE BASES were added to the Network, to appease

the needs and interests of the several members who helped place

this on the map. All in all, we find that we are a group of

dedicated lovers of art, and specially the beauty of the art of

writing.

And it wasn't long before we found out that we differed from

others.... we revered POETRY. And before we knew it, it was being

posted in French and Portuguese, with the help of a few friends in

Europe. We had done it.... our vision was so international, and so

open that we had done what the major networks of mail had not been

able to do... communicate and share our true thoughts, through the

purity of words. And it was exciting to find that other people

spoke of this language as the dream eye'd language of the 'poet

Shakespeare and my dear beloved Emily Dickinson'...

The CENTIPEDE, at this moment, houses mostly POETRY, and is in

the process of handling several other MESSAGE BASES, which allow for

us to meet, and find, the needs of the main menbers of the network,

and appease the needs of the readership. We remain dedicated to the

art of writing, and poetry in special, but have given in to Pedro Sena's

request that they place a FILM CONFERENCE, since he is such an avid

seer of foreign film, and an able reviewer himself. If he ever wondered

what his reviews of foreign films, returning to those countries, will

ever do fof him, he will not have long to wait.

This is the exciting time for those involved with the CENTIPEDE.

We are in our growing stages, and still looking for a few more nodes

on the European continent. The development of CENTIPEDE has created

a complete new set of ideas and possibilities, which no doubt this

issue is but a test. Pedro wished to have this issue also available

in a PUBLISHED FORMAT, so he could send it to various literary sources

and connections he feels he may have in Europe. Pedro believes that

this could open up a complete new avenue for the handfull of participants

in the YGDRASIL, not to mention a heck of a lot more work for KLAUS

GERKEN. Pedro would also like to reach the many professors, and

academics, which he has known and met through out his life, and try

to secure a connection, which he has missed. He's not sure this will

work, altogether perfectly, but he knows that even if it is all

ignored, he will have helped develop something new and different, and

added another dimention to it.

The editorial versions of this issue are different, in each issue.

We are assuming that the MODEM readers, are not quite the same as those

who will purchase the PUBLISHED ISSUE. We felt that the different

audiences might require the separate note sections in the end of the

issue to make it all work right, and to have them reach us...

Thus, you may read this issue, without some of these notes, over

a BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM, which is almost all pure TEXT and no frills.

The only glare you will get is from the monitor you are looking at. Or,

you can acquire the PUBLISHED VERSION, through YGDRASIL PRESS, and then

sit back and enjoy the border art work of Alicia-michelle Norgaar, with

the poems set within those boundaries. It creates another atmosphere

that requires a cup of coffee, or tea, in your hand.

At any rate, CENTIPEDE and YGDRASIL hope that they have interested

you in the concept, and that they have succeeded in getting you involved

in their endeavour, which is to create a solid, SOLID, forum for writers

and poets, the world over. We have already seen poetry in a couple of

labguages POSTED on the Bulletin Boards... now we are awaiting the rhythms

of languages we haven't yet met.... through you.

CENTIPEDE, would like to have your patronage, and would like

to make sure you can see for yourself what it is we are about. We

may give us a call, the nodes and numbers listed below, we will

gladly find a way for you to interact with us.

Thank You

Peter, Paul, John, George, Igal, Klaus, Ringo et al..

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CENTIPEDE

ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ A Professional Mailing NetWork ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ

European Edition Notes

This is the list of the CENTIPEDE nodes, for you.... we hope to hear

from you.... if you leave us a note, the SYSOP ( * ) will let us know

you asked, and we will get back to you.....

Surreal BBS * Marcus Breese * 219-262-9371

User Friendly BBS * Don Shackelford * 317-784-8401

Bitter Butter Better BBS * Tom Almy * 503-620-0307

Mandate Systems BBS * David Empey * 519-862-5663

The Exchange * Chuck Blaisdell * 609-259-9267

Revision Systems * Paul Lauda * 609-896-3256

Top Cat BBS! * Gerard C. Johnson * 813-885-5797

Synapse BBS * Daniel Coulombe * 819-246-2344

The Brampton Free Zone * Mike Stafford * 905-840-2176

The Database Warehouse * Mel Molder * +49-6301-3622

Hermes Center BBS * Philippe Cheve * +331-69007672

The Late BBS * Alex Scerri * +356-437-435

The Late BBS * Miguel Scerri * +356/492-964

Skyship BBS * Mario Pozzetti * +3511-3158088

The MAD Board * David V. Keeney * *CURRENTLY MOVING*

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°±²Û

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THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken

FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken

THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken

DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken

FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken

KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken

ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken

FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken

THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken

POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken

POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn

THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979) a poem by Klaus J. Gerken

STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS, poems by Igal Koshevoy

BLATANT VANITY, poems by Igal Koshevoy

ALIENATION OF AFFECTION, poems by Igal Koshevoy

LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE, poems by Igal Koshevoy

THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena

( and coming soon ... THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena )

( THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena )

( INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena )

ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each, and may be ordered from:

ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿

³ YGDRASIL PRESS ÛÛÛ ³

³ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. ³

³ OTTAWA, ONTARIO ³

³ CANADA, K2P 0C7 ³

ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $2.50 an

issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac),

operating system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for

delivery.

Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems

BBS (1-609-896-3256).

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ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄÄ Ò Â ÖÄÒÄ¿

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ÓÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð Á Ð

ÄÒÄ ÖÄ· Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄ· Â

º º º ³ ÇÄ º ³ ÇÄÂÙ º º ³ ÇÄÄ´ º º º ³ º º ³

ÄÐÄ Ð ÓÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ Ð Ð Á Ð Á Ð ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÙ

ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ

All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of

these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is

prohibited.

The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS:

No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from

there.

Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or

anything else appropriate should be addressed, with a self addressed

stamped envelope, to:

ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿

³ YGDRASIL PRESS ÛÛÛ ³

³ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. ³

³ OTTAWA, ONTARIO ³

³ CANADA, K2P 0C7 ³

ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ

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